Assassin

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nantucket Island

AMBROSE CONGREVE WAS SITTING WITH SLIPPERED FEET upon the table. Still in his pajamas, the man was also wearing, for some reason, a quilted black velvet smoking jacket with a scarlet spotted handkerchief in the breast pocket. He was smoking his pipe and looking up at a large television monitor hung from the ceiling. A graphic on the screen read:

FOX BREAKING NEWS!

“Top of the morning, Ambrose,” Hawke said cheerfully. “You’re up awfully early. Something good on the telly?”

Congreve turned and smiled at the newcomers through a haze of blue smoke. “I don’t normally watch the television at this hour, as you know, Alex. I don’t normally watch anything at this bloody hour except the angels of my dreams. But your dear friend Conch called from Washington at the hellish hour of six and got me out of my very warm bed. Apparently, something alarming is afoot with your ambassador in Paris, Mr. Patterson.”

“Grab a seat, Tex,” Hawke said, “And pay him no mind. He’s always grouchy until his midday eye-opener.” Congreve shot Hawke a narrow look out of the corner of his eye and then returned his attention to the monitor.

“This could be mighty damn interesting, Alex,” Patterson said, as everyone took a chair.

“What does he—”

“Here it is,” Patterson said.

Fox TV cut from a tight shot of their reporter to a wide shot of the ambassador and his two children out in the embassy gardens. He was bent over, whispering something to the two blond boys, putting his mouth to each of their ears. Then he stood upright, smiled broadly and approached the podium.

“Bonjour et bienvenue,” he began.

The camera zoomed in slowly on the ambassador’s face as he spoke, catching the blazing patriotism and the power of his conviction in his clear blue eyes.

“Freedom and fear are at war,” he began. Ten minutes later, having finished his speech, the ambassador began fielding questions from the press.

“Christ almighty, Duke, what the hell are you thinking?” Patterson said to the screen, slamming his open hand down on the table when the speech ended.

“I admire his stand, actually,” Hawke said, gazing thoughtfully at the ambassador’s face. “He’s right, you know.”

“Hell with right,” Patterson said angrily. “This ain’t the time for who’s right or who’s wrong. My team is charged with protecting the lives of these people! Now, you got this guy telling his colleagues around the world that—holy hell—now what?”

Everyone in the War Room stared up in horror at the images now unfolding on the monitor. The American ambassador writhing on the ground, white smoke pouring from his shoes. The shocked, disbelieving faces of his two young boys, desperately trying to rush to their father’s aid, but held back by the security agents trying to shield them from the sight of horrendous flames igniting at his feet.

“White phosphorus,” Tex Patterson said, “Christ! Somebody got to his shoes and—”

Ambrose saw the anguished look on Alex’s face, riveted by the vision of two little boys watching their father die before their eyes. “Turn it off!” Ambrose said, getting to his feet. “Turn the bloody thing off!”

Someone hit the remote and the screen went dark.

The men gathered around the table were silent. Everyone knew Hawke had witnessed the torture-slaying of his father and mother on a cruise to the Bahamas.

“Tex,” Alex said, lifting his head and turning his burning gaze towards the DSS man. “You got a real fight on your hands. A carefully orchestrated jihad. And, it’s personal. The Dog is killing your guys one at a time. And he likes to fight dirty.”

“You know what the worst part is, Hawkeye? We don’t know how to fight dirty anymore.”

“Oh, there still may be a few of us left around,” Alex said.

“Suggestion?” said Congreve. “Unless anyone has more pressing engagements, no one should leave this ship until we reach a very clear understanding of two things. How to run down this wretched Dog. And how to take him out. Mr. Patterson?”

Tex leaned back in his chair, an unlit cigarette dangling from his sun-chapped lips.

“Yeah. Let me start at the beginning of this thing. We had a case. DSS had a case, I mean. A serial killer in London in the mid-nineties. Most of his victims were young, attractive women. Shop girls. Prostitutes. My team only got involved when he murdered a State Department employee. Girl he’d picked up in a pub in Soho.”

“What was her name?” Congreve asked.

“Alice Kearns. Low-level staffer. African Affairs section at our embassy in Grosvenor Square.”

“She was his last victim?”

“Correct. Late Spring, 1998. May.”

“American, I assume.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. The only American victim. Why would you assume that?”

Congreve stroked his mustache, ignoring the question. “So the man you suspected of orchestrating the murders in Maine, fingered by the young deputy before he died, he was the suspect in these London serial murders as well?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And how did this ‘Dog,’ as you call him, come by his unfortunate moniker?”

“His laugh,” Patterson said.

“I don’t follow.”

“Videotapes were found in his penthouse on Park Lane after he disappeared. In each tape, the murderer is seen wearing a black hooded kaftan. Very careful never to show his face. But, by God, you can hear his laugh. Cackling. Howling. Shrieking. Just like a wild dog.”

“The Dog wore a kaftan,” Alex said. “Arabic.”

“Definitely,” Patterson replied. “We were getting very close. He was a well-known business figure in London, but somehow we managed to keep our suspicions out of the press, the whole story. He had no idea we were onto him. No one did.”

“Name?” Hawke asked.

“Snay bin Wazir,” Patterson said. “Had an Emirate passport, but he’d been around. Africa. Indonesia—”

“The Pasha! The Pasha of Knightsbridge. Brick Kelly and I had a lovely evening with him one night at the Connaught. Very well dressed chap. Polished. He wanted to join Nell’s.”

“Yes. That was late December, just a few days before we decided to move. On New Year’s Eve, 1999, a team of our boys went in with SAS commandos. Roped down from choppers to the terrace of his penthouse on Park Lane. One small problem: the guy was just gone. Appeared to have been forcibly abducted. He and his wife, Yasmin. There were signs of a struggle in the apartment. But, a lot of incriminating evidence left scattered about. Photographs of the victims. Tapes. Relics. Murder souvenirs.”

“Did anyone at the time think your serial killer might have been politically motivated, Chief Patterson?” Congreve asked.

“No. Why?”

“Just thinking. Alice Kearns was the last to die before bin Wazir disappeared. She was also the only American to die. She worked for the State Department. African Affairs, I believe you said. It occurs to me that Miss Kearns may well have been the beginning of your current troubles. Was she tortured? Mutilated?”

“Yes. How would you know that?”

“The others the same?”

“Uh, no. She was the only one.”

“Hmm.”

Congreve got up from the table and began pacing around it, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. “Please continue, Mr. Patterson. This is most interesting.”

“Included in bin Wazir’s grisly personal murder video collection was another tape. This one was of the bombings of our embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. You remember that—” He stopped suddenly and looked at Congreve. “Inspector, I believe I just figured out where the hell you’re going with this. I’ve got it now. Africa.”

“Yes,” Congreve said. “The Dar es Salaam and Nairobi embassy attacks in Africa. I believe they took place sometime in late summer 1998?”

“August 7. We lost eleven in our Dar es Salaam embassy that day. Two-hundred thirteen died in Nairobi the very same day. These were the first two terrorist acts against U.S. interests in Africa. No one knew the attacks were just the beginning of a worldwide war, of course.”

“Attacks which occurred just two months after the Kearns girl was murdered in May,” Congreve said, studying Patterson’s face. “The Kearns girl would have had access to embassy files and information, no? Architectural plans, personnel, schedules, et cetera.”

Tex nodded his head, favoring Congreve with a grim smile of appreciation. “Yes, she would have, Inspector. That’s how he did it. He extracted what he needed from that poor girl in order to plan the two bombings.”

“Tell us, please, about the videotape of the bombings?”

“The African videos were apparently shot from vehicles parked across the street from our embassies at the time of the explosions. Just far enough away to avoid damage and shot with a long lens. The man operating the camera can be heard laughing. Especially when the rescue workers begin removing corpses from the rubble.”

Congreve rose from the table, puffing on his briar. He looked at Hawke and Patterson for a moment, thinking. “If I may,” he asked mildly.

“Please,” Patterson said.

“Snay bin Wazir is not a maniac at all,” Congreve said. “A murderous psychopath, yes. Fiendishly clever. But he’s no lunatic nor religious zealot, either. One has only to look at his lifestyle in London. He seems to have embraced western fashion with a passion. Clothing, habits, mannerisms. So the man was, by all appearances, completely apolitical. If anything, a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist. Few al-Qaeda apply for membership at Nell’s. Suddenly, he kills a young woman for her secrets and attacks American interests in Africa. Why? And then he just disappears.”

“It doesn’t make any sense at all,” Hawke put in. “An unlikely political terrorist if ever I saw one.”

“Unless he became a pawn of someone else. Someone who actually is fundamentalist, who is a zealot, who does have a burning hatred for the West.”

“Yes. The Dog is a henchman for a terrorist network. But why would he do that?” Patterson asked. “Become a pawn?”

“Motive? Ah. Money, I suppose,” Congreve said. “He lost his shirt in London real estate, don’t forget.”

“If you’re looking for a zealot, I’ve got a candidate,” Hawke said. “This Emir the boy Kerim mentioned before he died. The man who controls all the sleepers. Someone with apparently limitless resources. Power and influence.”

“Yes,” Tex said, excitement creeping into his voice. They were finally getting somewhere. “That’s how this bin Wazir does it. He has some massive organization behind him, founded by the Emir. Why, the bastard just pulled off the assassination of one of our most prominent ambassadors in front of the whole world!”

“Meanwhile this Emir hides out in a cave or a bunker somewhere, keeping his own hands clean,” Hawke said.

“But, think about why this Dog is doing what he is doing, Chief Patterson,” Congreve said. “He is calmly and systematically destroying your entire diplomatic corps. Paralyzing you. Why? Why would he do that?”

“Ambassadors and their families make an ideal target. Potent symbols of the country’s ideals. And a projection of America’s power abroad.”

“All true. But, still, why target your ambassadors? Yankee go home?” Congreve asked. “Perhaps. But I think not.”

“Ambrose?” Alex said, seeing the man’s thoughtful expression.

“Where does it all lead?” Congreve mused. “These attacks are not random; they are systematic, beginning with the first two embassy attacks in Africa. And they will lead, eventually, to total paralysis. So why does one, this Emir for argument’s sake, wish to paralyze one’s enemy? Obvious, isn’t it? A paralyzed enemy cannot fight back. Can’t react. Incapable of retaliation when the killer or killers finally move in for the ultimate and perhaps cataclysmic objective.”

“Yeah,” Patterson agreed. “Looking at our recent digital cell intercepts, I’d say cataclysmic is a pretty good description. It is no secret our embassies are our primary intelligence platforms around the world. You paralyze our diplomatic corps and you cripple a lot of our intelligence-gathering capability. Hell, I see traffic almost every day alluding to some great ‘day of reckoning.’ ”

“Every dog has his day,” Congreve said.

“We just have to make damn sure this dog’s days are numbered,” said Hawke.

“Chief Patterson?” a young technician said.

“Yes?”

“A flash traffic e-mail for you, sir, just coming in from your Paris chief of station. Marked Top Secret.”

“Acquire and verify. Then just decode it and print it, son,” Patterson said. Because of Blackhawke’s almost constant communication with the U.S. State Department and British MI6, all but the most sensitive U.S. and U.K. codes were permanently loaded in her computer servers.

A minute later, the crewman handed him a single sheet of paper inside a black folder bearing the words “TOP SECRET” in red.

“Aw, damn it to hell,” Patterson said, quickly scanning the thing.

“Tell me,” Alex said.

“Regret to inform you,” Patterson read aloud, “that Special Agent Rip McIntosh died in the line of duty at 1220 hours this afternoon, in a valiant attempt to save the life of Ambassador Duke Merriman.”

Patterson’s chin sunk to his chest.

“He was the best of the best,” the DSS man said softly, “Ripper was the best guy I had.”

“I’m sorry, Tex.”

“This son of a bitch is ripping the heart out of my organization, Alex.”

“No, he’s not. You’re the heart, Tex.”

“That’s what I meant.”